Til It Bleeds
by Girl in a White Dress
Summary: Getting drunk is your objective tonight. [JS]


Disclaimer: Not my characters.

Notes: Diane, thanks for betaing. Written for LJ firstlines1000 #26.

* * *

You don't need to bother

I don't need to be

I'll keep slipping farther

But once I hold on

I won't let go 'til it bleeds

"Bother", Stone Sour

* * *

The room smells of cigarettes and stale beer. As you sit down, the girl behind the bar (though she looks too weathered by life to still be called a girl) reaches under the table for a glass.

"What's your poison?" Her voice has a hint of the south in it and you wonder what she's doing this far north. Maybe, like you, she was drowning in small-town life and escaped as soon as she could. Then you remind yourself that not everybody runs away, and you're off duty now anyway.

"A whiskey sour, please." You know you shouldn't drink on an empty stomach. You don't care. Getting drunk is your objective tonight.

Someone sits next to you, smelling of Old Spice and cigar smoke.

"Hi."

You glance at him. It takes all of three seconds to decide you're not interested. Just because you're lonely, it doesn't mean you have to jump into bed with any Tom, Dick or Harry. You're tired of this, coming to bars and picking up men. Why can't you have a husband to go home to after a long day at work?

You can almost hear your mother say, "Boy, did you get the wrong end of the stick, huh, Sammy?"

Shut up, you think. Your new goal in life is to stop thinking about Jack.

Or to think about him as little as possible.

Well . . . to _try_ anyway.

It's not really your fault, you think. How could you help falling in love with him? The way he looks at you, the taste of his kisses—

Shit. There's that L-word.

You don't love Jack. You can't love Jack. He chose his family, remember? He chose his (bitch) wife.

And once again, you're all alone. You could be a joke: a blonde walked into a bar . . .

Ha ha.

You order another drink. The bartender (whose name, you've decided, is Sally Ann) pours a shot and passes it to you. You try to smile as you thank her, but it's possible you don't manage to get it right.

She doesn't smile back.

Old Spice is still sitting next to you. You wish you had the energy to tell him to get lost.

"I'm Ray," he says.

Yeah? So what?

Three whiskey sours later, you've heard all about his divorce, his dead-end job and his new car. But the alcohol is working its black magic on you and, through the haze, Ray is actually starting to look appealing. (Of course, it has absolutely nothing to do with his eyes, which are almost the same shade as Jack's. Nothing at all.)

"So, gorgeous, tell me about yourself," Ray says. His hand is on your leg and you notice he's still wearing his wedding band. You feel sick. Even when Jack was in your bed, he wore his ring and you knew, every time it scraped your skin, it condemned you to hell.

You're going to miss it. Going to miss him. His hands sliding over your body. The way he held you afterwards, as if you were the most precious thing in the world to him.

"There's nothing to tell." You stop flirting with Rob or Rick or whatever the hell his name is.

"Aw, come on. You haven't even told me your name yet." His hand slides further up your leg. You swat it away and turn to the bartender.

"Hey, Sally, where's the ladies' room?"

She looks at you strangely and you remember, oh, yeah, that's not her real name. Still, she's used to drunk people spouting nonsense and points you in the right direction. Somehow, you manage to make it there without falling flat on your face.

Right now, Jack is at home with Marie. Probably in bed. The thought makes you nervous and you spend the next ten minutes hunched over the toilet bowl, getting rid of the whiskey sours.

What a waste of money.

Coming here was a bad idea. You didn't succeed in cheering yourself up or getting properly drunk. Somehow, you're sure it's Jack's fault. If you could just stop thinking about him . . .

Tomorrow you'll start to get over him, you decide. Tonight you'll go home alone and feel sorry for yourself. (Like that's anything new) At home, there's ice cream in the refrigerator and that's always better than alcohol. You wish you'd thought of this sooner.

Maybe this whole getting-over-Jack thing won't be as hard as you thought.

Because it's not like you really have a choice, do you?


End file.
